Page 30 of A Bewitching Compulsion

'You mean you're not going o

ut, after all?' Tamara sounded elated by the news. 'Just a moment, I'll go and tell Dad—'

'Tamara—' Clare winced as she imagined how the girl would phrase the news, but the receiver had already thumped down.

Then there was a clatter as it was picked up again, and she was surprised to hear Tamara say, 'He's not really bad, is he? The kid? I mean, he seemed pretty OK this afternoon.'

She and Tim had actually spent some time together playing a video game on the office computer, a cartoon-character one that made losing as interesting as winning, and involved typing in instructions rather than merely working a joystick or firing button. They had treated each other with casualness bordering on disdain, but there had been surprisingly little open conflict. Now Tamara sounded as if she was bothered that 'the kid', as she enjoyed calling him disparagingly, might be seriously ill.

'No, I think he's just got a chill, but I don't want to leave him. Tim gets a bit worked up about illness, which only makes him feel worse, and he hates being left alone.' Shari had promised to come and babysit, but Clare knew from experience that when he was in the grip of one of his unreasonable terrors Tim could be pacified by no one but his mother.

'Just hang on, I'll get Dad.'

'Clare?' From the hollow echo and the faint sound of water running, she realised that he must be using the cordless phone in Miles's bathroom.

'David, I'm sorry but—'

'Just a moment. Tamara, you can hang up now.'

There was a snort and a click, and some of the echo was reduced. 'Now, Clare, what is it? Cold feet at the last minute?'

'No! Didn't Tamara tell you?'

'That you're still hiding behind Tim? Yes. I'm not as gullible as my daughter, Clare. If you don't want to go out with me, you can damned well tell me honestly to my face.'

He had hung up on her. Clare fumed. If he thought she was that much of a craven coward, why did he want to go out with her? Damn the man for his arrogance. Naturally he would assume that he was at the centre of every situation!

A few moments later she had the chance to vent her anger to his face when there was a sharp knock at the door.

David was in no better mood than she. His pale shirt was hastily buttoned, a fleck of shaving cream on his chin indicating a hasty wipe.

'Well?' he growled at her, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes flickered over her, taking in the make-up veiling her freckles and her subdued finery. 'All dressed up and nowhere you dare to go?'

Clare glared her affront. 'It may be common in the circles you move in to put your own selfish enjoyment above the needs of others, but not in mine. My son is sick and he needs me. And I would far rather disappoint your arrogant expectations than his!'

'Where is he?'

'In his room, and you are not going in there looking like a thundercloud.' She barred his way, bristling with outrage. 'He's already worried that you'll be angry with him, and I won't have him more upset.'

'Are you sure he's not just putting it on?'

'Yes, I'm sure,' Clare gritted. 'Now, will you please leave?'

There was a stiff moment of silence. 'I'm sorry. I guess I thought you might try to cry off, and I was pre-programmed to shoot my mouth off. Can I see Tim? Just to reassure him that there are no hard feelings?'

Smiling suavely, he edged around her and Clare let him go. Let him see for himself that she was telling the truth.

Tim's breathing was harsh in the quiet room, and his face pale except for two hectic red spots high on his cheeks. His eyes looked huge in his small face, sad and watery, and his young mouth was suspiciously stiff. He would hate to cry in front of his hero.

'Hello, old son, having a tough time of it?' David's voice was soft and musical, no hint of his former temper.

Tim nodded, afraid to unlock his brave lips.

'Never mind.' A square hand cupped the boy's tight chin. 'You take it easy, and if you're still feeling bad tomorrow I'll play for you for a change. How's that? Deal?'

Tim nodded again. 'But you haven't got any of your violins,' he managed waveringly.

'That's because they're having a rest. Violins, especially the best old ones, are like people—they need to be rested every now and then. And I just happen to be one of those lucky ones who can take a break from playing and pick it up again without ill effect.' He smiled. 'I discovered that when I was ill once myself. I fretted and fretted about not practising, but when I came to play again I found myself much more relaxed and open to the music. So now I make sure that at least once a year I have two or three weeks in retreat. That's what I'm doing now. But for you I break fast. I can use your violin.'

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